Hallowed Horror

by Mark Tufo

  Lisa was a good girl. He'd married her two years ago, a legal secretary working for the DA at the time. He'd spotted her in the hallway of the courthouse one evening, and used his uncanny powers of persuasion to convince her not only to give him head right there behind the closed door of a traffic school class in progress, but to violate her boss's trust and photocopy some critical prosecution evidence for him. A week after Glenn's defendant walked away from a first-degree murder charge, Glenn used her little indiscretion to blackmail Lisa. Eventually, as he knew she would, she fell in love with him. Marital bliss ever since.

  Glenn waited for her to finish her shower while he had another beer. He breathed deeply, letting the steam from the open door, mixed with the thick, sweet aroma of strawberry-scented shampoo, permeate his nostrils. When she finally came to bed, he put the empty bottle on the bedside table, turned off the light and fell into a deep sleep filled with dreams of victory over everything and everyone.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The storyboard had been a good idea. It was three in the morning, but the picture was coming together; relationships formed, connections made, friendships born. That was not to say there were not, among these familiar strangers of the past, angers building, secrets kept, dark passageways not yet explored, some of which may hold fearsome beasts better left unawakened.

  But they all knew it was too late to walk away. As they had organized the board, Isabel told them that sometime in the past, maybe a hundred years, maybe a thousand, an event had occurred that now perpetuated this phenomenon, and it had to be learned by those involved. Perhaps the discovery was the key to stopping the cycle, or slaying the dragon, or at the very least figuring out whether it needed stopping and if there was a dragon at all.

  It did not escape Peter that his new relationship with Allyson seemed to parallel that of Chris and Ellen. Just as they had begun to explore the new world of each other's emotions, Peter and Allyson were dipping a toe in, too. Strange that a previous life—since that's what it was, had to be—would reflect so closely their lives in this time continuum.

  His divorce from his first wife had been so damned unexpected, Peter felt sure love would never find him again. More precisely, that he would never let it find him. The sudden pronouncement that Jill, the so-called love of his life, would fall for a lifeguard from Main Beach and leave Peter for tandem long board contests at Doheny Beach made his head spin with confusion. It spun like a china plate on a juggler's stick for a good year before Emma forced him to snap out of it. Emma. She was a good friend. Maybe she would find someone for herself. It didn’t even seem likely anymore, it had been so damned long since she’d even seemed interested, but the guys still checked her out whenever the two went out together. Peter supposed it was body language that told the possible suitors he and Emma weren’t together, but no matter. Their hopeful advances toward Emma were dealt with in the usual manner: a quick brush-off and no real explanation. Each time Peter had asked why, Emma had quickly explained that the guy-in-question wasn’t her type. Peter once told her that her type must be something other than Earthling, because pretty much every other type of guy had tried to get close to her at one time or another since they’d been friends. Few had been successful, and none for very long.

  Exhausted, Emma and Allyson stepped back from the story board and collapsed in the rickety wooden chairs around the table. Matt was already drifting in and out of sleep, his head currently lolled back, his nasal snorts short and not particularly annoying – yet.

  Isabel sat quietly, watching Peter. He looked at her and smiled, then at the board again, considering all the characters one last time before calling it a night. Or a morning. Or whatever the hell it was by now.

  Joshua Mattingly, the helpful, kind-hearted priest with a passion for the ladies. Lilly Morris, a popular actress who felt more comfortable with close friends than in the limelight. Her unlikely friend, Ellen Carver, a shy, desperate woman-child under the control of her overbearing, demanding father. And Chris. Chris Wickham, the talented but unmotivated artist who was doing less painting than falling in love with Ellen.

  But as Peter thought about it, it seemed the similarities between Allyson and Ellen were few. Allyson controlled her own life; Ellen was controlled completely by her father, told who to be and where to go, every facet of her life on her father's string. Allyson was a successful woman, living on her own in a nice Newport Beach townhouse that she had put the down payment on herself, her career and future in forensic science ahead of her. Where were the similarities? Should there be? Did he and Chris share more than their feelings for a woman? How much was he like his former self?

  Perhaps the answers would never be discovered.

  Isabel sighed, but showed no visible signs of being ready to quit for the night. The woman never seemed to tire. She turned her head toward him. “Some of you are in danger, Peter. You must return tomorrow.” Isabel closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I smell it in the air, coming up from the earth, the danger. You, Peter, are the key to stopping it. All of you are to some degree, but—”

  She stopped and squeezed her eyes closed, her face practically trembling with the force of her concentration.

  “Isabel, are you alright?” Allyson asked.

  She held up her hand, commanding silence. “A force exists that is opposed to you all. The force is extremely powerful.”

  A visible shudder overtook her frail shoulders, and she seemed for a moment to turn pale. Her voice sounded strange.

  “Peter, you are . . . Ga—”

  Peter looked at Allyson, then Emma. He then looked back at Isabel, his face contorted with confusion. “Isabel? Did you say I'm gay?”

  Matt was awake now, and laughed aloud. “Hmm. Single, lives alone in a studio apartment that he keeps very neat. It adds up. Well, Peter, I guess that’s it. Isabel is a medium. Looks like we’ll have to go with her take on this. Sorry, Ally.”

  Peter smirked at his brother. Despite the seriousness of Isabel's tone, they clearly all needed the comic relief. Everyone laughed.

  Even Isabel smiled as she shook her head. The color in her face had returned, absorbing the ashen hue that had dominated just seconds before. Peter wondered if those strong, telepathic episodes hurt her in any way. He hoped not.

  Isabel went on. “No, no. There is a name. I can't hear it clearly now. It is very important, and I believe there is one for all of you. But there is one missing.”

  “One what missing?” Emma asked.

  “A name. A person. You must find out who it is.”

  “I better go now,” Allyson said. “I have to work early, Saturday or not.” She looked at her watch. “If I hurry home, I'll get two or three hours.”

  “We're back here tomorrow night,” Emma said.

  “The trunk.”

  Emma looked at Isabel. “What?”

  “We must get the trunk. Other items in it are important to our pursuit of knowledge. Perhaps as important as the photographs.”

  Peter stretched and yawned. “We've got lots of pictures to go through yet. Do we need that now?”

  “I can get it tomorrow—uh, today. I'll call my mom. Peter, I'll need your help getting it out of the attic. It's not that big, but with this leg I won’t be able to get it out of the attic by myself. Plus, it’s solid wood – heavy.”

  “Sure. Call me. I'm going home for some shut-eye myself.”

  “Be ready by noon. I'll pick you up—wait. I don't have a car.”

  “I'll pick you up at noon,” Peter said. “Don't rub it in.”

  * * * * *

  Allyson tried with some difficulty to keep her eyes open on the way home from Isabel’s house. As she drove up her street, a sense of foreboding overcame her. The liquid amber trees that lined the narrow drive were full and green, creating a tunnel of wavering shadows that flickered gossamer and silver as the moonlight filtered in where it could.

  “Shake it off,” she said aloud. There were no reasons to q
uestion her paranoia. After all, some strange things were happening to all of them, and who knew how far it reached. Could these trips to the past bring something with them to the present? She had considered it, but her excitement at the idea of a past life – discovering that there was indeed, a past life – prevented her from mentioning it. Peter was edgy enough; she could sense it in him. If she were to satisfy her need to solve this mystery, she would have to keep it within herself.

  Her private driveway revealed only the usual things; the standard association-issue mailbox; the association-approved curtains she had purchased just after she moved in; the single light she left burning for late nights. It was a nice area with neighbors who kept to themselves and let her do the same. Of course, in Newport Beach – or almost anywhere in California – keeping to one’s self was the norm. A fully operational crack house could be located right next door, and as long as the chemical fumes didn’t spill out into public airspace, the crack dealer could count on being left alone until all his or her teeth fell out or until some crackhead inadvertently led the cops to the makeshift lab.

  An overwhelming fatigue swept over Allyson as she realized it was almost morning. She pulled the car up to within a foot of her garage door and parked. Throwing her bag over her shoulder, she stepped onto the driveway of the two-story unit and closed the car door, setting the alarm with a double honk of the horn.

  “Allyson.”

  The sudden, unexpected voice made her jump out of her skin. Recognizing who it was almost made her cry out with terror. “Daddy . . . what are you doing here?”

  But she knew what he was doing. The same thing he’d done since she was a child. He had watched her, followed her. Had his men keep tabs on her when he couldn’t fulfill the task. He was not just a career detective and overbearing father, he was a menace to her peace of mind.

  “What the good goddamned are you doing coming home at this hour?”

  “Daddy, I’m not a child any—”

  “Shut up,” he said. “You’re my daughter and I’ll say what you are. I saw you out there in the canyon. What the hell was going on out there?”

  Allyson looked at him, anger boiling up inside her and threatening to spill over. Knowing she would regret it, she fought to control her trembling voice: “You followed me? You tailed me and my friends?”

  “Get in the house!”

  He was a formidable man, and she was very familiar with his power. As she had so often done throughout her life, Allyson cringed at his barked command and shrunk away from him. He moved in toward her, but as she instinctively blocked her face with her hands, he only tore the keys away from her. As he turned to put the key in the lock, a voice within her said Run! Run and hide until the light of day!

  “In.”

  She had heard that inner voice before. As a little girl, when it sounded like the child she had been. Now the timbre of it in her mind sounded like the woman she was now, but the inflections and fear were no different than when she had been so small, so terrified of her father’s anger.

  Allyson started toward the door but he was impatient. Lawson Newland pushed her up the two steps and inside the townhouse.

  “Daddy . . . what are you doing?”

  He stood there, his eyes dark. Allyson knew what was coming. It was the very thing that had made her life so hard to figure out. She knew there was a pool of power inside her, from which she was able to draw strength so often in her life, but it had always been dry when she went to it in defense against her father. It was dry now.

  Allyson hung her head, slumped her shoulders. “I have to go to work in two hours, Daddy.”

  He punched her in the stomach. Allyson doubled over and wavered, but did not fall. As much as he liked to dominate her, her father also hated a wimp. If she had crumpled to the floor it would have been worse. Blackness swam in and out, red spots darted between the curtains of darkness, and still her logic remained intact. Stay on your feet.

  “Your mother was much stronger than you.” It was a statement, nothing more. He hit her in the face this time, his fist huge and rough, the impact devastating.

  Her ears rang like the bells of the Sistine Chapel as she staggered backward, tripping this time over the low ottoman in her living room. She tasted blood on her tongue where she had bitten into it, and that same punctured tongue found the newly loosened tooth despite her haze.

  “Focus on your work. Stay out of that house and stay away from those people. I’ll find out about them and end it myself if I have to.” He walked toward the door.

  Allyson watched him, her eyes filled with tears. Not tears of pain, or even of fright. They were tears for Peter Webster; tears for a man with whom she was sure she was falling in love. What her father could do to him frightened her beyond anything he could physically inflict upon her. No words. She nodded. Everything else could be sorted out later.

  Without speaking, he turned and walked back toward her, and she cowered again. But he simply dropped the keys on the floor beside her. “I love you, baby.”

  He walked out the door, stopping one last time to say, “Lock it behind me. Newport Beach or not, you never know who might come in.”

  Allyson lay back on the floor and let his last words echo in her ears. The one I need to keep out just left!

  She could not suppress the laughter that bubbled up at the sick irony of his statement, and only hoped he was far enough down the walk that he didn’t overhear.

  She woke up there two hours later, her body aching and in desperate need of a shower.

  And a heavy dose of makeup.

  * * * * *

  Peter didn’t wake up until nearly 11:00 a.m. the next morning. Emma’s call stirred him, or he might have slept until the afternoon.

  “Let’s go, Web. Need you to help me with that trunk.”

  “How did you meet Isabel, anyway?” Peter asked, rubbing his eyes and glancing toward the kitchen and the empty coffee pot. He wasn’t sure if he expected to see it full, brimming with dark, Colombian roast made by fairies while he slept, but it was still empty.

  “I never told you that?” Emma asked.

  “No. And I’m too tired to hear it now.”

  “Okay, since my car’s totaled, I need you here now.”

  “I showered last night – uh, this morning – so it won’t take me long. I’ll stop at 7-Eleven for some java and be right over.”

  “See you here.”

  She hung up, and Peter held the receiver in his hand, wondering where it would all lead. Where it would end, really. Sleep had been fleeting, but what he did get was refreshing.

  Isabel had one modern possession she absolutely loved, and with that Polaroid camera, which she claimed could help her see into a person's past, or even their future, she had taken some shots of the storyboard, two of which she’d allowed Peter to take with him.

  Peter still wasn’t sure what to make of the self-proclaimed medium. He laughed at the thought; was there any other kind? He might have scoffed at her claims of visionary powers, either past or future, as little as two weeks before. But now he had no doubt that Isabel knew things. She just did, and no amount of skepticism would change that fact.

  Despite his initial reluctance to become involved with her, it was the best thing for all of them. Emma didn’t need any prodding to believe in her abilities and Matt was convinced immediately. Now Peter, a man normally grounded in logic, held a great deal of respect for Isabel’s powers, however deep they ran. Allyson had been less difficult to convince, and now they were all believers.

  They had made great progress since involving Isabel, even if these were just the first pieces of a puzzle that promised to grow even more complex the further they probed.

  Peter held the Polaroid photographs in his hands now and stared at what was essentially a flow chart, the myriad of boxes, photos, interconnecting lines and captions telling the first part – or the last, Peter wasn’t sure which this was – of this fantastic story of past and present existing at one time
. Each picture had been put up with thumbtacks so it could be removed easily and ventured into by the travelers, as they had begun calling themselves casually.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Get moving.”

  It was Emma. “How the hell did you know – I'm starting to think you're the medium.”

  “I know you, Web. No powers required. Now quit screwing around and pick me up. I’m waiting.”

  Peter hung up and cursed her for knowing him that well. Only one’s lover should know them like that.

  No matter. He did as he was told, and within a half-hour, he’d brushed, dressed, and was in his car.

  The drive through Laguna was slow going. Tourists were casting aside the last days of spring and charging toward summer like he’d never seen before. Heavyset women and heavier men strolled the sidewalks and boardwalk wearing Aloha shirts, straw hats, and sunglasses that were cool ten years ago, now available in cheap knockoffs at $4.99 a pop at every drug store in California. Bag-laden shoppers already filled the Saturday sidewalks of downtown, and the scene, as usual, was entertaining and refreshing. While Laguna had lost much of its Old World charm over the last couple of decades, it was what it was, and people still flocked here to spend their hard-earned money and discover for themselves just what Laguna was to them.

  Peter turned up Thalia Street and hung a left on Glenneyre, which ran through town in the same direction as Pacific Coast Highway, but was unknown by tourists. That made it the perfect alternate route. He was at Emma’s house five minutes later, crossing Broadway and shooting the back way over to Cypress Street.

  “Hey, Web. How you feeling?”

  “Good, now. Need help?”

  Emma shook her head. She held a tote bag and wore black jeans, white tennis shoes and pink socks. Her top was a tank top with a light sweater thrown over it. “It’s hot in the attic. Hope you’ve got an extra tee-shirt in that car.”